A Call for Help
'Interior - ' ---- ::''The interior of the wagon is built with the idea of as much room as possible in the smallest space possible in mind. Everything about it is compact or foldable, not an inch wasted. The walls are lined with shelves, each cluttered with tools and small items--a couple of books, a comb, a brass lantern... Also, interspersed among the other things is a collection of animal figurines, each about the size of a closed fist and well-carved of woods ranging from dark cherries to golden oaks and pale-as-ice pine. ::''A scattering of sawdust litters the floor, and a few various woodworkings have been pressed as far as possible into the back of the wagon. Though at least partly a home, it's obvious that this is a workplace, as well. ::''The back corner of the wagon has been devoted to those things that make a home. The things that separate a mobile workshop from a place to live. A narrow shelf bed hangs beneath one of the windows and against a side wall, a hook and chain in place to lift it up as far as it will go. The addition of a thin, straw-stuffed mattress and a few blankets prevents it from folding up quite all the way. Beside it, a similarly folding shelf makes a sort of small table when lowered, and rugs cover that portion of the floor. A low trunk with a hinged lid holds a few necessities beneath the space where the bed hangs. ---- Zia is alone in the wagon, sitting on the edge of the shelf bed, head bowed. Unsteady, somehow. The curtains have been drawn tight, shutters latched, door closed so that only the faintest traces of silver-red moonlight seep in around the edges, but there is a lantern--yes, there, sitting on that fold-down table and casting oily, yellowish light across the place. And there's the dully-glowing red of embers on the floor. Paper that has been set afire. Taran ducks, first, looking around...and down. "You called," he says quietly. "I've come." Zia looks up at him, and the smile that comes is a contorted shadow of the real thing, a half-remembered movement of muscles that looks more tortured than merry. "...Thank you," she murmurs. "I'm... sorry to disturb you." Taran shakes his head. "Few do, honestly," he says, taking a seat. "Now. What's *wrong*?" "This wagon is on the rotunda of Fort Morningstar," Zia says dully. "Naoi is in there. In the House of Healing." The lines of her face harden. "Did you hear the news? Do you *know* what they're going to do to her as soon as they can get themselves together enough for it?" "She told me what she had done," says Taran mildly. "It would be like Celeste not to question it. She spends her life in rejection." "She *has* no life. If I don't do something, or if something doesn't happen, it's her head on the block. Not her pride, or her reputation." Zia shakes her head, looking away and focusing on the flame dancing behind the globe in that lantern. Taran nods, slowly. "What would you have of me then?" he asks, tone careful. "Oh..." Zia folds in on herself, drawing her knees up and resting her forehead on them for a long moment before she continues. "I don't *know*. I can't let her die. For nothing. For *lies*, of all the things to possibly give her life for." There's just a touch of resentment in those last words. Taran frowns. "For lies?" he asks. "Where did truth go, then?" "Oh, Light, don't tell me you believed her," Zia mutters. "The truth is elsewhere. She's buried it, and will not lift a finger to save her life." Taran tilts his head. "I believe she was carrying a bloody knife. Considering the arrow in her leg, I did not think she had been hunting rabbits, no." He reaches forward, frowning, to lightly touch her jaw if she'll let him. "Tell me." Zia shudders, closing her eyes, closing herself. But she doesn't move away. "You remember what you told me... about 'Shadow-slips'? It was an *accident*, for the sake of the Light. But she will take all the blame, and she will protect the Cult. At any cost. You understand?" Taran nods. "I understand," he says quietly. "I have no outrage for you, however. Mages often die, from shadow-slips. That a priest might ...is new, but that is all I can say for it. I am fond of her, though. I just...would like to know what you would ask of me, in this situation." Zia shakes her head, drawing in a breath and focusing on that flame again. The embers have died away now, and it is the only light in the wagon. "I have one more chance," she says softly. "A shot in the dark... but there's still an arrow, and still a target... And if I didn't shoot it, how would I know?" She chews her lower lip for a minute. "Will you stay with her? Please? And if... if they come for her, you will come and get me?" Taran adjusts his hand, to cup her cheek. "No sharing, hmm?" he asks, gently teasing. "Aye, I will stay with her." Zia blinks... and lifts a hand to briefly brush her fingers across the back of Taran's. "I will find Tshepsi." She manages the faintest of smiles... barely, and with a lot of effort. "If anyone can change the verdict now, she can." Lowering the hand again, she goes to her pocket and draws something out, offering it to Taran. "Thank you? Take this. Just in case." Taran nods. "Tshepsi is a gentle soul, and though her power is great politics means nothing to her. That gives her great freedom." "Light... I hope so." Shaking her head, Zia rises from the bed, and presses the key into Taran's hand. "Don't lock me out? I can hardly do this as it is without having to climb in through my own window." The jab at her regular good-humor is *almost* on-center even. Taran nods. "as you say," he agrees quietly, tucking it away. "I will keep watch." An expression of immense gratitude flits across Zia's face, and then she's gone, with the door creaking shut behind her. A moment later the sound of footsteps and the quick-paced trundle of a carriage, before the silence settles once more. ---- ''Return to Of Light and Shadow and Friendship Category:Dialogues